Blind tasting chez Philippe

The serried ranks of decanters were lined up with military precision their vinous booty glistening teasingly. God forbid we were going to drink the stuff within; instead we were going to wrestle with the fundamentals of identity. I had to decide, coming off a cold and sore thought, if I felt lucky, punk, and whether the sensitivity of my palate would allow me to shoot judgements unerringly from the lip…

First wine: Pale-lemon yellow in colour with greenish glints the first wine, idling in the decanter, didn’t give away much on the nose other than a certain austere vinosity. I chewed the palate – it seemed oily yet grainy with a touch of green apples, herbs and dry mineral. My immediate inclination was to travel to Alsace and Riesling, but I normally find wines to be a touch more revealing of their varietal character. The wine had the colour, but none of the lacy, ethereal quality of a German Riesling (even a trocken style). Moving further afield I couldn’t detect the floral/fruity quality associated with whites from South West France nor the Loire, and the delicate hue certainly didn’t betoken wine hailing (or sunning) from a warm Mediterranean climate. I have, however, previously tasted Burgundies which displayed similar characteristics especially those made naturally and with minimal filtering or addition of sulphur. A relatively young win it did not possess the crisp, flinty-and-shell attack of a northern Burgundy such as Chablis. I tasted again and squeezing the juice against my gums to extract every last globule of flavour, I picked up notes of warm apple and smoked citrus that always make me think of Macon and occasionally Pouilly-Fuisse which has been fermented or aged in old barrels.

My guess: Low sulphur organic Macon
Wine: Valle Isarco Riesling Kaiton, Peter Pliger

Too much shilly-shallying. Should have stuck to my guns

Number two had a cloudy-cidery hue indicative of prolonged skin maceration, and, despite the fact that the identity of the wine evidently resided in the long, long grass of left field, made me feel more comfortable in that I could immediately eliminate large swatches of unsuitable candidates. Checking on the nose… no tell-tale salty yeast notes, so neither a Jura wine nor funky vin de voile. This left me to profile the skin contact merchants of northern Italy, and, in particular, Friuli. The wine was not obviously aromatic (ruling out Malvasia and Tocai), nor did it possess the stunning, vivid, glistening peachtone that the Princic wines always have.  I was tempted towards the understated Vitovska of Benjamin Zidarich; the acidity and breezy palate of that wine was present but the wine was disjointed displaying a tightly wound minerality with, at the same time, almost lactic notes.  Vitovska has a dry relentless crunching minerality as if the wine had been carved out of the very limestone; this lacked that exacting precision and darting purity of fruit. Eventually, I ducked out of Friuli and settled further south as I was looking for something with a more Mediterranean accent. Valentini’s wondrous Trebbiano can be dumb even after a couple of hours in the carafe. This wine lacked the dimension or danger of Valentini but I was jiggered if I knew what it was.

My guess: Valentini Trebbiano d’Abruzzo
Wine: Grecanico Dorato Integrale, Marco de Bartoli

No disgrace, but somewhat haphazard speculations

Three sat fatly and beamed in the decanter. The shiny textured gold of late harvest grapes. Beautiful poised citrus notes, yes, ripe citrus, honeysuckle and vanilla, but not quite tropical (Jurancon, for instance, can veer towards mango, sweet grapefruit and even coconut and always has a strong marzipan note). It certainly wasn’t Alsace nor with kind of natural bright acidity did any of the warmer French regions recommend themselves. It was somewhat reminiscent of Sauvignon or Sauv/Sem blend from Bordeaux or Bergerac which had spent time on the lees in new oak although I wasn’t convinced. The barrel-fermented notes combined with the excellent acidity and great minerality let me to speculate about serious Burgundy. There was breadth to the fruit, verging on unctuousness but the acidity was perfect, holding it in check, perhaps not the finesse nor elegance of typical Puligny nor the richer base notes of some Chassagnes. Great Burgundy always expresses that tension between the fruit and minerality, but possibly restrained Meursault from a vintage with longevity. One thing worried me was that I can’t remember thinking of Meursault in terms of the following fruit descriptors: fresh, sweet pineapple, honeydew – this golden wine was too generous and come hither and lacking the chewy, spicy, mealy quality of great Burgundy.

My guess: Meursault Perrieres 2002
Wine: Montlouis Le Volagre, Stephane Cossais 2005

Overegged this vinous pudding.

The first red from decanter exuded breezy purple fruit. I loved the nose, very natural, wild flowers, hints of freshly churned earth, baked bread, cranberries and a prickle of CO2. With that mineral verve it must be Gamay from old vines from one of the top cru Beaujolais. My default position on such matters is Foillard (go to the master), but on reflection I should have considered that his wines are normally and layered more luscious and plummy - redolent of macerated dark fruits whereas this Gamay was a tad leaner and livelier, cool rapier steel rather than warm broadsword iron, a brilliant conversationalist rather than a friendly bearhug. My second choice, which was my first choice, was the Fleurie vieilles vignes from Yvon Metras, but I allowed myself the unwarranted luxury of second-guessing the motives of the pourer rather than following my sensory instincts!.

My guess: Morgon, Cote de Py, Jean Foillard (Metras vieilles vignes in the wings!)
Wine: Yvon Metras Fleurie vieilles vignes

No cigar, but a semi-congratulatory, hearty puff on a Gaulloise

At this point I began to relax and felt that I could trust my initial judgement without having to go around the houses. I cleared my mind, shovelled the prejudices back into the coal cellar and poured a glass of the final wine. The colour was faded cherry-red, either some bottle age or a wine made without extraction or both. The nose was gentle and unassuming showing dried fruits (morello cherry, fig), some liquorice and earl grey, a combination of characteristics that led me without deviation to one wine: Cahors, Clos de Gamot.  No second guesses, just sit back and smell the dried wild rose petals…

My guess: Cahors, Clos de Gamot, Cuvee Centenaire
Wine: Cahors, Clos de Gamot, Cuvee Centenaire

Epatant & Bingo!

When one reaches a decision so quickly (as a result of the information stored in one’s memory being instantly accessed) it seems like cheating, as if one knows the answer already (for, in a sense, one does). The art of blind tasting revolves around the science of studious deduction, although I will always liken it to pulling out a pin and lobbing a few guess grenades. Once in a while the logician in me crunches away until nothing is left but the answer. The journey with its detours and numerous cul de sacs, is more important than the destination; it is the spirit of the game, the senses a-tingle as they try to suck every last atom of data from the liquid, the expectation as one denies certain possibilities (that bridge is burnt!), the horrible, sinking feeling that one is making an absolute fool of oneself. Seasoned guessers endeavour to elicit information from the host, throwing out seemingly off-hand rhetorical observations. It is an exercise, keeping us fit and sharp, stretching our knowledge to its maximum encouraging collaboration between analysis and instinct, although ultimately it is better to cultivate an air of insouciance whilst furiously racking your brains for the answer.

In blind tasting, as in all forms of tasting, we have on – and off – days. Our senses may be cold; we don’t feel the wine in any way, shape or form. Our critical apparatus can compensate for a lot and logic can help to deconstruct a wine and to learn its identity. Our instincts are our super broadband connection to our memory and lead us in a click to the truth. On those (rare) days tasting becomes a kind of magic and we seem totally in tune with ourselves and with wine.